


Nouvelle Année dans Paris

by reliablemachine



Category: Inception (2010) RPF
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2020-01-24 04:58:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18564400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reliablemachine/pseuds/reliablemachine
Summary: Joe's hipster party on New Year's Eve ends up with his hand down his pants (unsurprising).





	Nouvelle Année dans Paris

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://hitrecordjoe.tumblr.com/post/2549274014/auld-lang-syne-the-sparks-sessions-it-was-not), wherein we learn that Joe is a hilarious lightweight and starts singing drinking songs after half a bottle of wine.

Joe and his friend Brian drink a bottle of wine between them on New Year's Eve in Paris — Joe is a little tipsy and probably acting more drunk than he really is because he's just like that. Brian gets him in a taxi and sends him home, but since he's overseas right now, 'home' is a hotel room downtown by the river.

He stumbles in and orders another bottle from room service, and calls Zooey because last he checked she's somewhere in France or England or Europe or Africa or fuck if Joe knows — she's not, she's back in LA, but the fresh bottle shows up and Joe has never been one to waste something like authentic french wine, so he pops the cork and pours himself a glass, tries sipping but drinks the whole thing pretty quickly and wanders around his room wondering if he's staggering yet (he can't tell).

He pours another glass and spends a full minute trying to type in the four-digit keylock code on his iPhone, wonders when 8545 became so difficult to touch, feels like his fingers are super fat for some reason, and when he goes into his contact book and flicks his finger, the list stops on Tom. Just Tom, no last name, and Joe has a brief lapse of memory and wonders who the fuck Tom is and who he thinks he is, not having his last name in Joe's contact book.

He takes another ten seconds to try and press Tom's name, then hits Call.

"'ello."

There's noise on the other end, like Tom is at a party or something, and Joe remembers it's new years and remembers that's why he can't feel his face (or maybe that's from lying on his back on his bed with his head hanging off the edge, blood rushing into his ears and smothering his brain.

"… Hello?"

Joe thinks he makes a strange noise, then he says, "Hhhi, Tom?"

"Mmhm, Joseph?"

"How'd you know it was me?"

"… Caller ID, you— Are you drunk?"

Joe tries to lift his head back up level with his body but it's sooo heavy, he doesn't even know… It's never been this heavy before, never, but it's getting hard to keep his eyes open from the pressure, so he squirms around then tumbles off the side of the bed to the carpet with a thud.

"Ow, fuck, fffuck," he says, but doesn't move, just rolls over onto his side with the phone on the floor by his ear, then has a flash of insight. "OH… TomTomTom _Hardy_!"

There's a heavy silence from the phone and Joe makes a quiet noise. "I knew it was you," he says, and it's the perfect cover-up in his head. 

"Listen Joseph, are you at home? I think you ought to go to sleep if you're already pissed and it's not even midnight there yet." 

"Wha—NO, no wait, I'm in France, it's some time… I don't— Some… What time is it? It's not— Tom." 

Joe's all confused, still rolling about on the floor, pants twisting around his hips and shirt bunching up at his waist, and he decides this is absolutely not how he wants to be positioned right now. 

Tom's saying something like "France? Where in France? It's— 3:30am right now, but seriously, where in France?" but Joe's got his collar up over his ears as he tries to wriggle out of his shirt, and _fuck_ , why is it so hard to think… So hard, god, Joe groans softly when he rolls over and his dick rubs against his jeans and he realises he's half-stiff for some reason. 

"Joe?" Tom says, and Joe squirms closer to the phone. 

"Mmm, mmhm? Got my— Just my pants, they're rubbinmmmm…" 

"Yeah? Hold on," Tom says, and Joe hears more noises, breath exhaling and the faint sizzle of a cigarette being put out on cold cement, then loud music and shrieking laughter, someone's deep voice yelling in what sounds like broken French, then a door and the music is muted. "All right, what was that about rubbing?" 

Joe snickers and fumbles with the buttons on his shirt but they won't budge so he hikes it up to his chest and sticks his hand down his pants, sighing immediately, audibly, into the phone. 

"Mmm… What are you doin' right now?" Joe holds himself still for a moment, then starts jerking, back arching, hips thrusting into his own hand and it's too fast, but he can't stop. 

Tom's quiet for a while, maybe considering, maybe thinking of what to say, but finally he whispers, "I'm in the bedroom here, edge of the bed, got my hand on my cock if that's what you're after." 

Joe _mmmms_ again and his eyes slide shut. 

"Fuckin' my hand," he mumbles, and Tom makes a low noise into the phone. "Pretending it's you, it's your mouth…" 

"You really are drunk, aren't you? I thought you had a girlfriend," Tom says, but Joe knits his eyebrows and focuses on his jerking. 

"Fuckin' your mouth," he says, "like I always wanted to do during filming, always— hgnnn, always wanted you to stop me behind a partition, _fuck_ , just… drop down and put your lips on my dick." 

Tom groans quietly. "Go on…" he says, and Joe whimpers into the carpet as his hand speeds up. 

Tell me what you're doing," Joe says, words slurring into the carpet, pressed against his cheek and making red marks around his five day-old scruff. 

"Mm— On my front," Tom whispers, almost shyly, and it'd be cute if Joe weren't drunk off his ass from a total of one bottle of wine. "Greasin'— fucking beating off to your slutty drunken phone sex." 

At least he's honest. Joe moans some more, rolls completely onto his back and lifts one knee up to his chest, spreads his legs as wide as he can with his jeans still on, and tugs on himself long and hard, teasing himself with pressure, making his own toes curl. 

"What're you wearin'?" Tom asks, and his voice sounds wet, like he's salivating and struggling to keep it all in through heavy panting. 

"Jeans, oxford," Joe says, breath thick between the words. 

"Shorts…?" 

"None." 

"God, Joseph…" 

"Tell me what you want to do to me," Joe says, practically having an out-of-body experience at this point — he feels like he's looking down on himself jerking off, feels like his thoughts are totally clear and make perfect sense, yet he can't put them into words, and he keeps getting confused. He rubs his pinky finger over the front of his balls every time he jerks, tight with anticipation, and whimpers again, softly. 

"Wanna hold you down," Tom starts, and there's still a shyness in his voice, but Joe makes quiet, encouraging noises to try and goad him on. "Hold you down by your wrists and fuck your mouth with my tongue, bite your lips and make your neck all red with my teeth—" 

Joe groans faintly and has to still his hand to keep from coming in his pants, edges himself like a pro and tells Tom to keep going. 

"I'll make you rock hard before I even touch you," Tom says, "and when you're beggin' for it, I'll make you wait some more, until you can't take it, gonna explode everywhere if I don't fuck you." 

Joe doesn't think he's panted so hard in his entire life — it's a struggle to keep himself from going crazy solely from Tom's voice, and he has to clamp his fingers around the base of his dick to keep himself in check. 

"I'll start out slow," Tom continues, "but I'll get faster and faster until— _fuck_ , until I'm fucking you into the floor and you can't see cause there are stars in your eyes; until you can't even remember your own name or mine or where you are or anything except the feel of my cock in your arse, pounding you senseless." 

Joe starts jerking himself again, fast, pants out that Tom better not fucking stop now, whimpers for him to go on, and his thighs are tense — everything's tense, threatening to go over at any second, and he's pretty sure he's going to have rug burn on his face but he needs Tom to _keep talking, god_. 

"When I come in you, you won't even remember how to breathe cause you'll already be so fucked out, and when you come— _fuck_ , Joseph, do you even know how much I want this — every day last year, in your bloody harness and tight suit pants and your ass, your ass, do you even know—" 

Joe's too far gone to even know what Tom's saying at this point, just jerking himself off like the world's ending, and when he comes it's with an impressive gr/moan, directly into the receiver on his phone, and Tom swears like a sailor all of a sudden, breath staggered and forced and heavy. 

Joe's pretty sure he comes for five hours straight, because that's what it feels like, dripping down his fingers, stopping on his wrist, but most of it ending up in the front of his jeans. 

When he regains control of his basic speech functions, he swallows hard a few times, trying to get rid of the dryness in his throat from all the panting. 

"I need you… to come to my hotel," he says. "Have something to show you." 

"Is that so?" Tom murmurs, sounds like his face is pressed into a pillow, and Joe nods despite himself. 

"Mm, need you—" Joe's hand is still stuffed in his pants around his dick, now-cooling come making his fingers sticky, but he rolls over onto his side and his brain starts to shut off. 

The last thing he remembers before he falls asleep, blissed out in a post-orgasmic, still-tipsy haze, is Tom’s voice at his ear, saying something — something about being down by the river and he’ll see Joe tomorrow. 

Joe’s iPhone runs out of charge and turns itself off halfway through the night, the half-beard on his cheek scratching across the face of it. 


End file.
